The Mute Heiress: My Ruthless Husband's Prize

Hilliard released her wrist. He stood up and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, as if touching her had soiled him.

Elenor rubbed the spot where his fingers had been. The skin felt hot. She watched him, her mind racing. She wasn't just Elenor Becker, the mute heiress. She was "The Analyst." She moved millions on the dark web. She knew how to break companies. And now, she was married to the CEO of one.

She pointed at the tablet in his hand. She made a gesture-opening a book. Let me see.

Hilliard raised an eyebrow. "You want to read the fine print now? A little late."

But he handed it to her.

Elenor took the device. Her fingers, seemingly clumsy from her injuries, moved across the screen. She feigned scrolling through the legal jargon, but her touch was precise. She wasn't reading. She was testing the device's responsiveness, swiping to access the system's root directory, looking for diagnostic apps or logs that would indicate monitoring software. It was a reflex, a hacker's instinct to map any new digital territory.

Her thumb hovered over a system process that looked suspiciously like a keylogger.

Suddenly, the tablet was ripped from her hands.

Elenor gasped, her hand jerking back.

Hilliard was leaning over her, his face inches from hers. He had moved with terrifying speed.

"You're looking for something," he asked. His eyes were narrowed.

Elenor's heart slammed against her ribs. Had he seen? Did he recognize the pattern of her swipes as a system probe?

"What were you looking for, Mrs. Blackburn?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Elenor widened her eyes. she summoned every ounce of innocence she possessed. She pointed to the corner of the screen where the date was displayed. Then she tapped her head, looking confused.

Hilliard stared at her for three long seconds. He was dissecting her, looking for the lie.

"The date," he said finally, sounding skeptical. "It's the 14th. You've been in a coma for three days."

He tucked the tablet under his arm. "I'm leaving two security guards at the door. 24/7. For your safety. And to ensure you don't do anything stupid."

Soft confinement. That's what this was.

He walked to the door. "And Elenor," he said without turning around. "Fix this mess with Julian. I don't like other men touching my property."

The door clicked shut.

Elenor waited. She counted to sixty. Then she collapsed back against the pillows, letting out a shaky breath. She threw the covers off. Her legs were bruised, scraped, but whole.

She sat up and ripped the IV needle out of her hand. A drop of bright red blood welled up, sliding down her skin. She didn't feel it.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet hit the cold floor. She stumbled to the window and pulled back the curtain just an inch.

Down below, the street was choked with vans. Satellite dishes. Paparazzi.

She was trapped. Hilliard's guards at the door. The media at the exit.

She turned and looked at the bathroom vent. It was small. High up. But she was thin.

She wasn't going to wait for Hilliard to decide her fate. She had to get to the manor. She had to get the hard drive.